"Nope." Brian appeared to be biting his cheek, an oral distraction from whatever inner narrative he felt compelled to share but wouldn't. "Don't, uh," lifting beer, "Don't stop on my account." After all, he worked in a bar on the side of a highway. It wouldn't have been out of place for a patron to jump on the bar, topless even (not often, but it happened, and figuring out where to put his hands while he escorted her safely down was a whole other problem). "I just didn't know we had that song."
The woman didn't smell normal. Not bad, but not human either, and he'd bet money that the guy with the thumb didn't have a pulse. Frankly that wasn't out of place in Lucky's, either. Last time he'd walked through the VIP room, that crowd was putting out such an in-human vibe, he thought he'd walked into the Mos Eisley cantina.